The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the crisp morning air as Lael Mercia stepped out of his WestEnd apartment, the city of Orris just beginning to stir around him. Sunlight, already bright and promising, glinted off the polished windows of the bakery he frequented. He had just finished his morning run, the rhythmic thump of his feet on the pavement a familiar comfort.

"Good morning Lael! Come back from your run alright?" Con, the baker, greeted him with a cheerful wave, his face flour-dusted and beaming. Lael smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "Morning Con, yeah, it was good. What do you have for me today?" He ran a hand through his raven hair, securing it with a scrunchie at the nape of his neck.

Con’s voice dropped conspiratorially as he handed over a neatly wrapped package. "Your special as always. I have a bit of news for ya'… The Morrisons are opening a pub down the next block, hoping to grab some of your clientele. Most folks down 'ere told 'em it's a bad idea, but they seem adamant."

Lael hummed, a subtle shift in his usually placid demeanor. The Morrisons. A foolish idea indeed. He took the package, the familiar weight of it in his hands. "Thanks Con. And no worries, I'm pretty sure they'll learn their lesson on their own."

He patted the baker's shoulder, a gesture of quiet confidence, and turned to leave, the city’s hum a low thrum against his senses. Life in Orris was rarely simple, and a new venture always brought new ripples.